Kin
by Kshar
Summary: Feanor, Artanis, and a lock of hair.


Kin

by Kshar

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of the estate of J. R. R. Tolkien, and are used without permission.

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Long, long ago, when the colours all bled into green or gold and the songs spoke of nothing more than praise and love, there was no darkness. It is so difficult to imagine now; even those who have lived long enough to remember have glimpses of memory, none of them adding to make the whole. They remember in pieces, of golden days and simpler times. And it has been so long that most of them remember this faded warmth with grateful hearts, without envy; that most of them no longer grieve.

Artanis sat cross-legged on the ground, frowning over her work as she wove strips of cloth with treated hide. Her knife lay beside her in the grass, a burnished-silver echo of the bright gold glory of her hair.

He came at her from behind--not for the reason of stealth, for he had no desire or need to hide himself. He wanted, rather, to steel himself before he looked at her face. He had known her face, had looked on her long, and every time he looked at her as a whole he felt something shift deep inside him, something break loose, something unman him.

Her hair was so bright.

When he was little over an arm's breadth away from her, he saw her move her hand; slowly, precisely, and place it over the knife. He smiled a tight smile, and the skin around his eyes felt stretched and thin with the work.

'Whom did you imagine I was?' he said, and reaching her, he walked in a circle to stand before her, all the while watching her in her curve of light.

'You,' she said, her lovely face expressionless. She did not rise, and he did not sit.

'You would draw your knife on your own kith?'

'On my kin,' she corrected. 'And I did not draw, Fëanor.'

He looked back at her hand, realising only in that instant that he had looked away from it. A distraction, he chastised himself, that in other circumstances would have been dangerous. Or, mayhap, was dangerous even here. Her hand still rested, motionless, on top of the blade.

'You are careful for one so young,' he said. 'Would you permit me to sit?'

She nodded her head, but her eyes were back on her work. Tension was white in her throat, leading his eye. Her collarbone was just visible above the line of her shift; angular, breakable. He sat on the ground in front of her, and although she did not look up, he felt self-conscious for a moment, so he covered himself with words.

'What reason have you to draw a knife?' Fëanor asked her sharply. 'There is no threat to you here.'

She breathed softly. Quietly. One breath. Two. Three; three times, three breaths he watched. He had seen this in her before, this controlled grace. She had not been able to sustain it for long, he remembered. 'No one was ever hurt,' she finally said. 'By being cautious.'

'What is it you are making?'

'Hunting armour,' she said, and held it up. Her light eyes caught his, and it seemed to him that this time it seemed he had asked the right question, or something close to it.

He could not prevent himself, though: he reached a hand to the garment, picking at the side seam where a thread was astray. 'That seam does not look strong enough to survive a day's hunting, Artanis. Your talent does not lie in threading a needle.'

'No doubt you could do better,' she said, but so smoothly that Fëanor almost did not notice the set of her jaw beneath the cloud of hair.

He laughed, but somewhere inside himself he carved this moment. Remember: a weakness, her quickness to rile.

'This is not where your skills lie,' he said firmly. 'You would do well to avoid the crafts if you do not shine. Turn yourself elsewhere.'

'Your advice to me...' she said, shaking her head slightly. 'Should I break my hands, that others might sew in my place?'

'That was not what I said. You would also do well to learn to listen.'

She opened her mouth to reply, but Fëanor waved her down. 'Wasting your time at sewing! You should be building something of value. What would you do, child, how would you honour Eru? If you could do anything you chose.'

Her forehead creased, and she turned her head. Finally she answered him: 'I would grow trees.'

To say that Fëanor was surprised would, perhaps, understate his feelings.

Her voice rose as she went on, and a faint heat coloured her face. 'What finer way to praise Eru than with a garden, with His own creations? What could be more beautiful?'

Some things, he thought, watching her, but did not say.

'What then,' she said, and in her voice was a clear challenge, 'Would you create for Eru?'

He reached forward, unable to resist for any longer, and touched her hair. He saw her stiffen at his touch, but she did not move. He said: 'I will create something to catch His light.'

She was silent for a moment, weighing his answer, then snorted derisively, and went to move away.

'You do not believe me?' he said, following her movement. Artanis did not look at his face, but he moved with her; so close to her he must have filled her vision. Slowly Fëanor saw the tiny, mocking smile fade from her face, shadow to light. 'You do not believe me capable?' His hand tightened on her hair.

She stopped moving. He raised her chin with his free hand, and she met his gaze. There was something in her eyes still, some lost defiant look, some anger and pride. Something passed between them in that instant, and later, when he was to reflect on it, he could not yet have said precisely what that something was. It was only later; much later, when time itself had left him, that he recognised it: at once love, and hate, and a mutual decision.

He opened his hand and looked at the trail of fire that was her hair, lying loosely within his fingers. She did not pull away, still, and he thought, that means something. That must mean something. He moved his hand, just a little, until he could feel the warmth radiating from her cheek with the back of his fingers. His breath caught, and he licked his dry lips.

'Would you...'

'No!' she said sharply, snapping her head back. His hand closed involuntarily as she pulled away, and he held the lock of hair briefly before it ripped through his closed fist. She stopped after backing a stride away from him. Fëanor could see the skin reddening at her temple, but she did not touch her head, did not even seem to notice. Her eyes were watching his fist. He turned it palm up and straightened his fingers. Not a hair had caught: his hand was empty.

He fought down a feeling of bitterness; he had not wanted it like that, not truly. Not truly.

Some other time, some other way, he thought. She turned silently, snatched her knife from the ground, and walked away. He watched the glow of her hair until she disappeared from view.

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End.

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End file.
